


Big Spoons and Little Spoons: Hobbit Fills

by jeza_red



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, M/M, Prompt Fill, because I have some shorts, that I would like to post here, the pairings and warnings will change as the stories pile up, yes I love Bilbo is it showing?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-14
Updated: 2013-07-14
Packaged: 2017-12-20 04:34:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/882993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeza_red/pseuds/jeza_red
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fills for the prompts I sometimes write that are too short to make them into a real story - they may be longish, crackish, angsty or funny. We'll see:D</p><p>1: Talk to Him! - a story of misconceptions and misunderstandings where Thranduil is angsty and Thorin is stubborn and Bilbo saves the day. Thorin/Thranduil, Dwalin/Bilbo, Kili/Tauriel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Big Spoons and Little Spoons: Hobbit Fills

**Author's Note:**

> http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/8478.html?thread=18081310t18081310 origianl prompt. 
> 
> I decided to ressurrect Thorin via Arkenstone, like in my story "Heart of the Mountain" where after awakening Thorin is linked to Erebor - just to avoid confusion:) Oh, and Thranduil is such a teenager in this oneXD

 

 

 

 

Little Bilbo Baggins.

Who would have thought?

Such a small creature he is, so soft. Thranduil watched the Hobbit from across the room, seated on a plush chair next to Bard – who he will not call a king, because he finds it silly and out of place. Master of Dale, Dragonslayer, Bowman – these are the names that fit the man, but he’s no king yet, not in the present company. Give him time, though, and he may as well earn that honour. They both seem uncomfortable with being seated together at the high table, but Thranduil is much better at hiding it. He’s had centuries to hone his indifferent expression and this is the moment it finally pays off – as he watches Bilbo Baggins.

Such a surprise, he thinks, that Hobbit is. His presence surprised the Elvenking when he saw him for the first time – at the feet of the Mountain, with the Arkenstone in his little hands; trading the greatest treasure of Erebor for his friend’s lives. It was much later, – after the battle, after the peace talks, after the harsh winter that forced all three races to once more band together in hope of survival, – that Thranduil got to know the real worth of the halfling he thought he had already respected enough.

It was the younger prince, Kili – a fearless youth that fell in love with elven bows and became good friends with his son, - that filled the Elves in on the entirety of their doomed journey.  It was him who sat with Legolas and a few other curious guards and spanned a tale about Trolls, Orcs, and mountains fighting one another, about an unexpected visit to Goblin Town and giant eagles. Thranduil was present then, pretending not to listen, pretending to be interested in his chalice, but catching every word and every exclamation.

The whole story, as it was always with the Dwarves, praised their strength and skill; Kili sung praise to his uncle above all else, next only to his brother, and Thranduil forced himself to be calm during those parts. Because he never doubted Thorin to be brave, to be strong; of course the dwarf would pull through everything fate decided to throw at him. But it still filled his heart with pain when he’s heard about Azog the Filth, about the spiders and hunger, and a wild ride in the barrels.

The barrels!

Oh, that was clever. Stupid mostly, but also clever.

And there was no doubt in Thranduil’s mind at the end of the tale that this kind of clever didn’t belong to any Dwarf. No, this kind of clever surfaced in the story time after time saving the Company without a second thought, without regret. It was cleverness of a steady head, belonging to a being of common sense that was terrified out of its mind and desperate to save its friends.

It was cleverness of someone who wasn’t afraid to trade his own life on one chance that his ungrateful king would be saved.

And Thranduil knew that as much as the quest was Thorin’s – as much as the Dwarf deserved all the praise – it wouldn’t go far without the little Hobbit with rosy cheeks who saved Thorin’s life, tricked the Elvenking and spoke to the Dragon in its lair.

Looking at the little being now Thranduil tries not to let the bitterness swell in his heart.

Mister Baggins surrounded by Dwarrows, sitting at the table with their King and the Company, laughing at something or the other. The Summer’s End Festival – set on the date of the battle to honour the alliances made that day – is in full swing, ale flows freely and laughter fills the air, and Thranduil can’t seem to remember why he is even there as his eyes lock on the one that speaks to the Hobbit.  

“You can go there and talk to him, you know?” a voice speaks next to him and the Elvenking startles. Young Kili is standing behind his chair and, with a smirk on his handsome face, offers him a cup of sweet smelling liquid. “Try this,” he encourages. “It’s honey we unearthed in the Mountain. Turns out that the dragon completely missed our wine cellars and it had time to age in peace.” He hands the second cup to Bard, who takes it with a nod of thanks and a small, but grateful smile. “It’s much better than that piss from Lake Town, I promise.”

Thranduil’s eyebrows pull a bit at crude words, but a happy sigh form the Dragonslayer helps him to make his decision. The honey burns as it slides down his throat, but not unpleasantly, and afterwards there’s a sweet taste lingering at the back of his tongue.  Indeed, it’s richer and tastier than the apple cider they’ve been buying from the former Master.

Young Dwarf usurps the seat next to him and leans in closer, so they can have an illusion of privacy. Thranduil wonders at the ease with which Thorin’s nephew acts around him and in some part of his heart he is even grateful for it. He never expected to find a connection to someone that young, especially not a Dwarrow, but it seems that Valar like to play games with their children. Kili is a cheerful presence with a quick tongue and easy laugh and so it’s no wonder that most of the Elven court likes him already.

Maybe it’s the way he resembles Thorin, Thranduil wonders. All eager eyes and smart hands, and the heart visible in every expression on his young face.

The heart that was once in his reach – one that he so carelessly mishandled.

“You will have to talk sooner or later,” Kili told him quietly. “Fili can shoulder negotiations only for so long. On day you will be in the room together and many lives will depend on you two being civil.”

“Your brother does well,” Thranduil assured with a blank expression on his face. “And the King Under the Mountain seems to have at last buried his resentment for my kind.”

And it took him only dying once – on the fields of fear and ashes, bleeding out in the mud, surrounded by dead enemies. When the Mountain revived her King she took something from him, for there was no hatred in his eyes when he looked upon Thranduil anymore, no anger. Harsh lines on his forehead smoothed out and there was only polite interest in the eyes that glistered like the Arkenstone itself. 

Thorin Oakenshield, Thorin II son of Thrain, son of Thror, was reborn as a King and he acted like a King. There was no grudges, no weakness where his Mountain was concerned – he did everything to make his people great once again. To make his people happy.

Everything.

Didn’t Thranduil see enough of that when one of the main points of today’s celebrations was the reveal of a freshly build home suited for a Hobbit?

It was told that the smial built into the sunny side of the Mountain was a gift from the Durin’s folk and Men of Dale to the small hero who in the end saved them all from doom. That everyone willing worked on it to make it suitable for a Hobbit that decided to stay with them. And part of it might have been true, - why, some of his own people decided to help out, - but the Elvenking knew better than that. The Mountain was sacred to the Dwarves, it was their home and they defended it ferociously from any alien influence.

And Thorin allowed to _dig a hole in it big enough to fit a home in_. He allowed to plant apple trees and cherries around it.

If that was not a telling sign, Thranduil didn’t know what it was. He could barely set a foot in Erebor without Dwarven guards surrounding him – _he_ wasn’t trusted even now, after Mirkwood made peace with the Mountain.

And the worst part of it, the absolutely _worst part_ , was that as much as he wanted, he could not find it in himself to hate Bilbo Baggins even a little bit. How could he? When the little being marched by Thorin’s side across the Misty Mountains, sharing joy and pain, aiding the Dwarves and, in the end, securing their home for them? How could he hate a heart so big that it had a place even for those who cast it out? That waited out greed, hatred and insanity; that waited out death and despair and _still_ had enough love left in it to forgive? 

No, he couldn’t. Because, how could he measure up to that?

When the dragon attacked, he didn’t dare to lead his people into fight, the danger was too great and his people too precious to waste their lives so. It was a sensible decision, a kind one. Even if his heart clenched at the sight of the mighty kingdom falling, even when pleads for help echoed cruelly in his ears, it was _still_ a decision a King shouldn’t be ashamed of.   

 And he wasn’t ashamed of it – he hurt and despaired, but wasn’t ashamed for decades.

Until Bilbo Baggins walked into the dragon’s lair with nothing else to protect him than that toothpick of a sword. Until a halfling that owned nothing to the Dwarves risked his life to give them back home that the Elvenking was afraid of defending in the first place.

How could he hate that? If there was one person in this world worthy of the love of the Dwarrows it was the Hobbit. No wonder that Thorin decided to keep Bilbo at his side, that the Mountain took the halfling in with fierce affection and pride usually reserved for its own kind.

“Uncle hasn’t changed that much, you know?” Kili spoke to him when the silence started to stretch unpleasantly. “He is still… well, himself. A bit less hot headed and impatient, and his eyes glow now, but he still can be a stubborn ass from time to time. Sometimes Bilbo is the only one that can talk reason into him.”

Ah, yes, no wonder.

He could see them now, the halfling sitting next to the King, saying something that made Thorin smile – that easy smile that long ago was for him only – and lean over the armrest to say something back that made the Hobbit blush.

The cup in Thranduil’s hand creaked a bit before a warm hand landed on his arm. 

“You know what?” Kili smile was a bit strained, but genuine enough as he peered at him. “How about a contest? I bet that this time I could beat you with no trouble.”

“Oh really?” The Elvenking allowed one of his brows to inch upwards. “I hope you still remember who thought my son archery. He’s better than most, but not yet better than his teacher.”

If the boy wanted to entertain him, so be it. Archery was a relaxing sport; maybe it would allow him to release some tension from his shoulders? They were getting uncomfortably stiff.

Bard didn’t need much incentive to leave the table and join their little contest. The Man had to be bored out of his mind with polite chatter of many bootlickers left after the last Master.

As they were walking to the archery range set up on the outskirts of the festival – followed by a small crowd of curious gawkers, - Thranduil dared to cast one last look at the King Under the Mountain and, just for a moment, he allowed himself to hear words falling from his lips...   

“…you are easy to love, Bilbo Baggins.”

And he regretted it instantly.

 

*

 

“You know, Thorin, you will have to talk to him someday.”

The King grunted something that could’ve been a slander to Bilbo’s mother for all the Hobbit could understand, and turned his eyes to the side, pretending that he wasn’t eyeing the opposite table for the last few minutes. Bilbo released a drawn out sigh and re-focused on his plate, piled high with sweet potatoes and hearty gravy. As of now dwarven hospitality didn’t let him go hungry even one day, and it was touching and amusing at the same time.

“Kili seems eager to do the talking for now,” he could hear Thorin grumbling and looked up. And yes, there was the younger prince, sitting by the Elvenking’s side and trying to seem inconspicuous as they whispered to each other. It was such a strange sight, those two together: one short and cheerful, the other tall and imposing even when he decided to smile.

Bilbo respected King Thranduil, but the Elf’s cool approach was something that always left him feeling awkward and uncomfortable. He was just a Hobbit after all, and he couldn’t help being awed by the Elves. He’s tried to seem less impressed with them, he really did – it made him no favours while living with the Dwarves, - but he could barely stand to be in the same room with those majestic beings without tripping over his own feet or blurting out something silly.

While Kili, to everyone’s surprise, took to the Elves like fish to water. He took every chance to visit Thranduil’s court and as far as Bilbo was concerned, it honed his diplomatic skills enormously and lessened the workload that Fili, as an heir, had to shoulder. The Company looked at the antics of their youngest with an air of amusement and indulgence, and the only person who was at all unhappy with the situation was Thorin.

“I don’t know what you expect to happen,” Bilbo spoke carefully. “World won’t explode if you say ‘Hello’ to him. Thranduil is not that scary,” he lied unashamedly. “And he probably doesn’t want to argue either.”

“I appreciate your advice, Mister Baggins,“ Thorin answered stiffly. “I will consider it.”

“I hope you will,” Bilbo tried to keep the bite out of his voice. “That’s what I’m here for, isn’t it? To give you sensible advice you can swiftly ignore.” 

That caused the King to flinch a little. His eyes focused on the Hobbit and Bilbo had to swallow a bit, because he was still not used to the way Thorin kept going away and coming back. He was grateful to the Mountain that saved their King, of course he was, but there was magic at play here he couldn’t understand and it made him nervous from time to time.

“It’s not... I didn’t mean it like that,” Thorin protested and the distance was gone from his gaze. It was replaced by awareness and a dash of guilt.   

“You never do,” Bilbo resolutely kept staring at his plate. “And yet I can’t seem to get through your thick skull when it comes to the simplest of things.”

“I always take your advice into consideration.” And now there was a shade of hurt in that voice, and Bilbo felt like and ass.

Yes, Thorin respected him these days enough to listen to his thoughts on most matters. The Company respected Bilbo enough to appoint him as their King’s keeper, believing him to be the only one able to tell them honestly when the gold sickness returns. _If_. If it returns. They hoped that it’s gone forever, but there was no surety – and even Thorin couldn’t promise them anything, so Bilbo decided to stay.

There wasn’t really much to go back to for him, was there? A boring life of lonely walks and evenings spent by the fire, with no one to talk to. Two years ago, when he set his foot in Erebor for the first time, Bilbo Baggins wanted nothing else than to go back home.

Now he couldn’t imagine leaving the Mountain.

Not when its King fulfilled his promise of bringing Bilbo’s home to him.

“Not everything has to be hard, Thorin,” he spoke gently, laying his hand on the Dwarf’s and marvelling not for the first time at the difference in sizes. “Sometimes you just have to be the one to take the first step. It was a long time ago,” he insisted. “You were young and full of anger and he was, well, an Elf. And you know how well they deal with regret.”

Only a bit worse than the Dwarves, but still, the lengths Thranduil went to solely not to have to speak with Thorin... And they said that the Dwarrows were stubborn.   

“You’re both older and hopefully smarter for it. Use the chances you have before they’re taken away from you.” Again – he wanted to add, but didn’t dare. The past was still too fresh and painful to bring it up during such a happy ceremony. 

“How are you so wise, halfling?” The King asked, smiling teasingly.

“Because Erebor would fall on your heads if there wasn’t one sensible person under it.”

 “Sometimes I’m afraid it to be truth,” Thorin said with a sigh and went back to glaring at his nephew who was deep in conversation with Thranduil. “We’re truly lucky that you decided to stay with us.”

And that, Bilbo knew, was the Mountain speaking. In the books he’s read in his youth the kings and rulers sometimes addressed themselves in a plural form; the royal We, he remembered. But in this instance the ‘we’ was completely honest and a matter of fact.  

And sometimes it made him nervous and scared for his friend; afraid that one day Thorin may not get back to them from whenever he’s moving to when the Mountain takes over.

“I wonder at that too,” he decided to follow the path of harmless teasing. “You’re truly lucky to find one Hobbit in the world that doesn’t mind moving across Middle Earth on a whim.”

“We rather thought it was the promise of ten meals a day that finally settled the matter for you.”

“It was a factor only, my King, and a minor one at that.”

And here he was, exchanging banter with a Mountain. Who would have thought that would happen to the proper Bilbo Baggins of Bag End?

“We planted trees for you.”

“Because you couldn’t get enough of my apple tart.”

And when the Mountain laughed the sound travelled through the bones of all present.

“I could do without your tarts,” Thorin sniggered, back once more. “Good as they are, I prefer your peach turnovers. No, my friend, it’s not me who covets your tarts.”

Bilbo could feel his ears flush when he followed Thorin’s gaze and his eyes landed on a Dwarf sitting end of the table, unaware. He snapped his head back, mouth pressed into a thin line, _daring_ the King to say _anything_. 

Which, of course, he did. “He likes your cooking.”

Oh, didn’t Bilbo know that.

“He is a Dwarf,” he said stiffly. “He likes everyone’s cooking.”

“Are you suggesting that my kind is simpleminded?”

“Gluttonous, more likely.”

“Mister Baggins,” Thorin leaned over once more and this time his face was serious and his thick brows pulled together. “You pride yourself on being sensible, yet you blind yourself to most obvious things.“ 

“I’m not blind, Mister Oakenshield,” Bilbo answered patiently. “Just realistic. I’m not the kind of a… person… a Dwarf would choose and we both know it. Short, soft and beardless to begin with.”

Thorin nodded in agreement. “Yes, you are all those things,” he said. And then added, “And yet, against all that, you are easy to love, Bilbo Baggins.”

And that was one of those things that the Mountain changed in Thorin Oakenshield – it made him unashamed to say things like this in the open, when someone could hear him. If there was one thing that the Company has been grateful for in all this tragic mess, it was the way their King started appreciating their presence and actually showing it. Not by the big, sweeping gestures like giving them titles or important duties, no. It was those small moments when he said something that the old Thorin would surely choke on – something warm and heartfelt.

Something that made Bilbo Baggins blush and stammer, because while he was aware of the high regard he was being kept in, it was still embarrassing to hear it spoken so openly. And there was no easy reply to a statement like that.

 “I have to say the same about you,” he murmured earnestly. “Under all that stubbornness and angry glower, and thickheadedness…”

“May I remind you who you are taking to, halfling? I can lock you up for those insults.”

“And there it is; a proof of my words.” Bilbo took a hearty gulp of the honey filling his cup and smiled. It was a little wobbly, but it was honest. “I guess that’s my greatest weakness: tall, dark, handsome Dwarves who steal my baked goods…”  

Bilbo realized that he’s said too much the moment he felt Thorin’s posture stiffen – and when a whole mountain stood behind the gesture, it was easily felt by the ones sitting close enough. And the look directed at him, the one Bilbo desperately tried not to meet, was almost like a touch on the side of his head.

“You… really?” Thorin was rarely lost for words these days. “When…?”

Bilbo felt it’s only fair that he explains his stupid blunder before it grows into something bigger and even more awkward. “In the very beginning,” he spoke and cleared his throat self-consciously. “I was… maybe for a bit. You can’t blame me, you know, with all this roguish charm and tragic backstory. And I could never ignore a nice pair of blue eyes for long… well, until it all became too much and I just… stopped.”

They sat in silence for a while after that, surrounded by music and laughter and the smell of honeyed apples roasted over the bonfires by the children of Men and a few dwarven youngsters. Bilbo decidedly lost his appetite for the moment and stared mournfully at his plate. So much good food will go to waste and all because of his big mouth; because he had to blubber about something that didn’t even matter anymore. He’s had a good friend in Thorin Oakenshield and that was all he needed after all the heartbreak this journey has brought him; life was good now.

He dared a glance at the Dwarf sitting at the end of the table, closest to the spit, who was engaged in rather lively conversation with the older Prince. Fili usually was a coolheaded youngster, but today he apparently decided to let go of his princely persona and took to singing and laughing and chasing after children, pretending to be a dragon. And arguing with the Captain of the Kingsguard, apparently.

“I’m sorry…” quiet voice brought him back to the matter at hand and his stomach clenched even more. “I was a blind fool. For all it’s worth, I think it’s for the best. As I was then… I didn’t deserve your feelings.”

“Of course you didn’t,” Bilbo answered with surety he tried to feel. “Hobbits’ affections are for the good, hardworking people, not for snotty kings. No, snotty kings deserve one another. And that’s why,” he turned around, trying to stare a mountain down, “you will _have_ _to_ talk to him.”

This particular Mountain didn’t mind being stared at. Indeed, it simply raised its impressive eyebrows and smiled a tiny little bit. “We will,” it promised, reaching out and patting the hand of its burglar. “Right after you promise to talk to your tall, dark and handsome tart-thief.”

To that, Bilbo had no reply.

 

*

At the end of the table, prince Fili sighed into his palms, as he rubbed his face tiredly. One look at the glowering giant at his side made him sigh again.

He followed his heated stare all the way to the top of the table where his uncle and their Hobbit shared a private conversation. Conversation that involved a lot of blushing and patting hands and find looks.

It was quite depressing, Fili thought, to be the only one in the Mountain with a working brain.

“You have to talk to him!” he snapped finally, when the Dwarf next to him started to clench and unclench his massive fists. “He’s not made of glass and neither are you! Just talk to him!”  

 

*

 

For all the long years of his life Thranduil has never been invited to a Hobbit hole. Nor did he ever think he will be. Not that he cared for the most part. He knew of the creatures, appreciated them for their perceived simplicity and good cheer like any other Elf.

That was all until he’s finally met one of that elusive folk – and his perception of Hobbits changed overnight.

Why wasn’t it known how cunning they were? How stubborn? Why no one warned the rest of the races populating Middle Earth how formidable of an enemy hose little creatures can be?

It was hard to think of Bilbo Baggins as his enemy – the little thing barely reached his waist after all – but Thranduil was starting to see how unwise it would be to underestimate him. Yes, sitting in the small, yet surprisingly sprawling smial, with a dainty cup of wonderfully fragrant tea in his hand, the Elvenking finally understood where he’s made his mistake.

“Would you like some honey with your tea, your highness?”

The Hobbit was polite to a fault. He was generous with food and drink, his hospitality was unblemished and effortless. From the moment he stepped through the small, round door Thranduil felt that he’s not in control of the situation anymore, instead he’s being guided by a gentle hand of his little host wherever he was wanted. He kind of regretted leaving his guards outside and coming without his son. Legolas was a friend of Mister Baggins and surely the Hobbit would be loath to poison his tea.

Quite delicious tea, to tell the truth – quite like everything else served at the beautifully crafted table in the spacious room that was obviously build with bigger guests in mind. The table and chair he was sitting on were newly made, but the rest of the furniture was old and worn, though well loved. The whole house carried a feeling of homeliness to it, of comfort and simplicity. If Thranduil was a poet like his son, he would say that ‘goodness’ filled the place to the last inch; it was bright and loved by its builders and the sole occupant.

The food served for a light meal his host called Luncheon was… unlike anything the Elf has ever tasted. Fragrant with herbs and subtle with flavours; battered fish was melting in his mouth, freshly baked bread was fluffy and doughty at the same time, and those little pastries served with strawberry jam and clotted cream almost made the Elvenking moan with delight at the taste. He didn’t of course, but it was a close thing.

Bilbo Baggins surely knew how to entertain his guests; he was neither forceful nor forgetful. Their conversation circled around small, light subjects and the Hobbit seemed to be equally interested in Legolas’ youthful adventures as well as in the still dire situation around Dol Guldur. Thranduil felt himself relaxing and, to his own surprise, enjoying the afternoon spent in the presence of Thorin’s small advisor.

And he was awed at the cunning of the creature all the more for it.

Oh, wasn’t it smart? Wasn’t it perfect? To pay him back for imprisoning the Company with this graceful hospitality?

He was not stupid, he was a King to his children for centuries and he could read the situation for what it was – revenge dipped in honey and served with biscuits.  

After the battle no one ever mentioned those weeks in Mirkwood – neither Dwarves nor the Elves, as if it never happened. There were bigger concerns on everyone’s minds, but Thranduil should’ve expected that his stubbornness will come back to bite him at some point. And from what he’s heard from young Fili, the fact that it came back in the form of Bilbo Baggins was a small surprise.

The Hobbit almost starved in his dungeons.

Bard wanted to starve the Company out of Erebor.

“Oh look, apple tarts are finally ready. Would you like some, your highness?”     

He could take harsh words for it; he could take disdain and cold indifference.

But this – the thing Mister Baggins was doing here – was impossible to dismiss. It hit him in the chest and made something in his soul shrivel in shame. He was being shamed by the generosity of his host. He was being shown how little his actions meant in the end, for Bilbo Baggins had the upper hand – he’s led Thorin from Mirkwood. He’s saved his life. He’s earned his trust.

He won.

In the end he won and there was nothing Thranduil could do to change it. To argue his case now would be a height of crudeness; he would lose his face and prove to the Dwarves and his own people how little restraint he’s had when it came to Thorin Oakenshield. 

Oh, it was that damned cleverness again. He was being shown his place by a being half his own size and he could do nothing about it! He was being forgiven so easily and ostentatiously that it stung!

So be it, he decided. So be it. He could take his defeat with grace one expected form a King. It was a fair win, after all, and it’s not like Mister Baggins was an unworthy opponent. He was courageous, wise and sensible; his influence on the King Under the Mountain was undeniably positive. Men of Dale liked him, Dwarves liked him and even the convoys from Rivendell seemed to adore him.

He was also… vey comely. Surely, his short stature greatly helped matters – Thorin never liked looking up for too long. Not that their past… dalliances… ever crossed the borders of mutual fascination into physical interaction. They were simply not interested in that aspect, but here… Thranduil could easily see Thorin changing his mind at least partially. And Bilbo Baggins had such small, gentle hands, even though they were covered in scars – it was easy to imagine those little fingers buried in the silverish darkness of Thorin’s hair, braiding them every morning with affection in every gesture. 

It was so easy to imagine. What he had to offer to the proud King, not a prince anymore? He could outwait the Hobbit, of course, halflings lived short lives compared to the Elves or Dwarves – but that would only mean more heartbreak, it would mean always being a second to some dead memory.

Why no one warned the races of Middle Earth how devious Hobbits were? How cruel?

“I do thank you for not destroying Kili’s spirit too much yesterday,” the Hobbit in question spoke pleasantly over his own tiny cup of tea. “As you can imagine it wasn’t easy for him to gain acceptance for his weapon of choice and he’s very proud of his skills.”

“As he should be,” Thranduil answered calmly. “Dwarrows have short sight outside of their tunnels, it’s a wonder he is as keen as he is.”

“Sometimes it looks to me like he’s just relaying on luck, but I guess that’s also a skill. Another scone?”

Yes, he wanted another scone and it was unbearable!

He could not stand it any longer! It was…

“I would not think you cruel, Master Baggins,” Thranduil spoke finally, setting the cup down. He missed it instantly when his hands flailed for something to do, but he composed himself enough to welcome the calm expression appearing on his face. “But I guess it only proves that even the gentlest of beings can be brought to severity. I’m not proud of having my hand in that.”

Truly, he wasn’t.

“I’m sorry…?” the Hobbit looked at him with startled expression, grey eyes wide and innocent. He was skilled, oh, he was. “What are we talking about now?”

“Let us cut to the chase,” Thranduil kept his clam. “You won. Isn’t that enough?”

And the pain it cost him to say it out loud was only doubled when it didn’t seem to satisfy his host.

“I am sure I have no idea…”

“He chose you, halfling!” he finally snapped. “And I can accept it.” And he planned to end it there, to close his mouth and maybe have a sip of that wonderful tea to settle his nerves, but it wasn’t to be. For some reason his lips kept talking. “I’ve lost my chance before you were even born and, Valar permit, I may have it again after you’re dead so enjoy your victory. I will not be…”

The teacup landed on the table with enough force to chip it and Thranduil’s lips snapped shut on their own volition. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to accept the invitation, he though. No, certainly. The Hobbit was looking at him with narrowed eyes, some strange expression crossing his face, leaving his eyebrows pulled low and lips tight with displeasure. It would do Thranduil no favours if he’s managed to anger the only being in the Mountain rumoured to have the power to overrule the words of its King.

“I thought that we already explained the matter of it after the battle two years ago,” Bilbo Baggins said sharply, yet still politely. “I will not stand to be called a half of anything and certainly not in my own home.”

Oh yes, he did forget that his opponent was neither a Dwarf nor a Man. He was used to courteous backstabbing, but polite arguments were still new to everyone East of Rivendell.

“As for the other matter, I’m not a cabbage on the market to be chosen by anyone, thank you very much!”

That was not the crux of the matter!

“Kings,” the Hobbit sighed, rubbing his forehead. “You’re truly a useless lot, aren’t you?”

Thranduil almost stood up in anger – but at the last moment he remembered that the low ceiling could easily make this move very to look undignified very quickly – and settled instead for a hiss of displeasure. Just as he was about to voice it properly, however, the doorbell chimed.

“Oh, finally,” the Hobbit rushed to answer the door. “Please, stay here, your highness.” He was a picture of politeness once again, previous ire seemingly forgotten. 

The Elvenking considered polite escape – even an impolite one seemed tempting at the moment, - for there was no way he was going to continue this farce until the Hobbit is satisfied. He would like to think that it was pride and honour that kept him at the table, not the lack of any other exit besides the one his host has used. Irritated, Thranduil bit viciously into another jam-and-cream-slathered scone. There was no point in wasting good food, after all. He’s heard that Hobbits take their meals very seriously – and the baked goods especially – and it would disappoint Legolas entirely if he’s managed to insult Mister Baggins even more than he already has.

Legolas would be also disappointed with the knowledge his father imagined little, smart fingers crunching between his teeth instead of a savoury crust, but at least this was something he will not ever hear about from anyone.

A few minutes passed in blessed silence – as Thranduil didn’t bother with extending his exceptional hearing outside of the room. As it was his due, he regretted not doing it a moment later, when his host returned and in his wake marched none else than the whole reason of this whole mess.

He should have listened. Maybe then he would have a chance to escape the unearthly gaze that fell on him in a startled fashion when Thorin Oakenshield entered the room.

“Burglar…” King Under the Mountain stopped in his tracks and made a strange motion with his hands, as if trying to grab the Hobbit and drag him back out into the hall.

The Hobbit had none of that, thought. His smile was perfectly pleasant as he motioned for the Dwarf to sit at the table. Scathing glares he was receiving from his guests didn’t even make a dent on his polite mask and, grudgingly, both rulers started to understand that they’ve been outsmarted and felt ridiculously outnumbered by this small, devious creature.

“You’ve not told me you’re already entertaining,” Thorin regained his majestic pose quickly, doubtlessly thanks to the mountain standing in his shadow. He didn’t take the seat, but surveyed the table spread as if he considered it. “I would have come later, Mister Baggins.”

“You dare to suggest that a Hobbit may be unprepared for visitors?” Bilbo answered with a teasing smile. “Surely you out of all should know not to underestimate our hospitality.”

“Nor your pantries, it would seem.” Confronted with a steel-wrought smile of pure delight, the King capitulated and took the chair. A plate of roasted potatoes with bacon and a cup of mead appeared before him seemingly out of thin air and he thanked for them with a small smile.

Thranduil tried not to stare.

Thorin Oakenshield, thanked for a meal.

Thorin Oakenshield, was polite and docile and…

Oh, that was the last stab at his poor heart, wasn’t it?

How did this… this… this miserable creature manage to tame the most stubborn, most unruly and aggravating Dwarf in the world? How did he manage to get him to listen!?

Was this another way to show him how unimportant he was now? How unthreatening?

How incredibly, incredibly stupid!

“Well then, you’re all settled and whatnot,” said Hobbit nodded surveying the table and its two occupants with a knowing eye. Then he looked at the small water clock standing on the beautifully crafted cupboard and made a startled noise. “Oh, goodness! Look how late it is! I promised Gloin that I will cheer on Gimli during today’s competition… where is my head? I have to apologise, your highness,” he turned to Thranduil and gave him a deep bow. “And you, Thorin, but I have to go.  Obviously, help yourself to the food and anything you need in the meanwhile. Oh, I’m so dreadfully forgetful…”

“Bilbo Baggins!”

Heavy, displeased growl stopped the little creature in the doorway. The burglar turned back with a smile, but one of his little hands was clenched tightly on the handle. “Yes, my King?”

Thorin looked at his advisor with a frown marking his brow and cold suspicion in his eyes. Thranduil decided to stay still and quiet. Valar permit, there may be a chance to escape. Oh why did he take the seat farthest from the door?  

“You did not…” the King started to speak, but he was cut off very quickly by a little impatient huff and a stubborn stomp of a big, hairy foot.

“Of course I did!” The Hobbit said proudly. “And remember that I have the power to keep you here until I deem it necessary.”

Thranduil was very careful not to let his jaw drop.

 “I gave you this power for a reason!” Thorin’s voice was lower, but his fists were tight on the flowery tablecloth. The light in his eyes brightened as the Mountain added its own displeasure.

“Yes, I know,” Bilbo stated, not at all unsettled by the heaviness in the air. “So I could use it when the Kingdom is at risk. And, with all due respect, I do think that Erebor needs my intervention right about now. When the King suffers, the Mountain suffers too, and I will not stand back and watch it unfold!” Another little stomp followed. “You two will stay here and talk like adults or I will tell the guards to stand at the door until the first snows!”  

Having said that, Mister Baggins made another shallow bow and left the room, impolitely slamming the door behind his furry feet.

Thranduil was speechless.

So it was true, then. Bilbo Baggins, First Advisor of Erebor had the power to overrule the King’s word. And Thorin himself granted him said power. Was he so afraid of the gold sickness returning? Or was something more directing his decision?

But then, why would the Hobbit orchestrate this farce if…

“Blasted Hobbits and their devious little minds!” Thorin cussed under his breath. He lifted the cup to his lips and drained it on one go. “And they call us stubborn, ha!”

And then the Dwarf did the ting Thranduil has feared:  he turned to him.

The awkward silence seemed unending as both rulers measured each other with carefully blank stares. It wasn’t oppressive, but after a while it started to feel as if the room was leaking air, leaving them both a bit lightheaded.

“I guess it has come to that,” Thorin spoke first. He lowered his eyes and instead pretended to contemplate a pattern of flowers on a dainty teacup that looked downright fragile in his big hands. “I will keep it short, then.”

The Elvenking held his breath. That was it. His heart was about to be stomped on and he tried to prepare himself as best as he could. He could see it now; it was supposed to be his final defeat, his final lesson. Bilbo Baggins was a worthy adversary, he went straight for the throat…

“Be good to him. He’s not my son and I have no right to tell him in which direction to point his heart in, but… the boy is young and dear to me and if you hurt him… There will be no place to hide you, Elvenking.  Not your forest, not the mountains, I will find you and I will repay you tenfold.”

Only the fact that he was already sitting stopped the Elf form toppling over. He stared at the King Under the Mountain in wide eyed incomprehension, trying to figure out when did it happen that the simple words stopped making sense.    

“If my sister doesn’t get you first, it will be me. So tread carefully with my nephew, Thranduil.” Saying that, the King stood up and turned to the door. “Break his heart and I will break your neck.”

“Wait.” It took three times before the words formed in his throat and then it was impossible to stop their confused rush. “What are you taking about!? Have you lost your mind completely, Thorin Oakenshield? What is this all about?!”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know!” Thorin roared back. “Whatever might have been between us in the past, Kili is young and pure and I will not let you hurt him!”

“Kili? What about the prince… Oh.”

Oh indeed, the Elvenking finally understood.

“Are you threatening me in case I… Oh, Valar have mercy!” This time he threw caution to the wind and also stood up, careful not to bang his head on the ceiling. “Confound you Dwarrows! I have no designs on your nephew, you fool! He is a dear friend of my son and has become so for me, but I would not even think to… Oh, you’re blind as well as foolish! He is but a child still!”

“He spends more time in your halls than he does in Erebor!”

“Because young Kili wants to court the captain of my Kingsguard, Tauriel!”

That seemed to be the bad thing to say for Thorin’s face turned scarlet and his massive fists hit the table with enough force to make the wood creak. The Mountain was angry and it grew in his shadow, and Thranduil could almost feel the winds from its top brush his skin, scalding it with cold; almost hear the deep grumble under his feet as the rock shifted deep in the earth.

Were he in Greenwood, his forest would protect him; his trees would shelter his heart and keep him safe. But here, he was on his own. And yet that didn’t mean that he was weak.

“An Elfdam?!” 

“I will not take scorn from you for any of my people! She’s a great warrior worthy of praise! And you have no right to complain, not considering your own choice!” 

“What choice?!”

“Mister Baggins of course!” 

The silence that fell after these two words was absolute. Thorin stepped back and drew himself in, squaring his wide shoulders, but his face was clouded with angry confusion. His shadow shrunk and paled. Thranduil leaned on the table, breathing hard, trying to calm his nerves. It was a while since he’s got this worked up about anything. It was unpleasant and tiring, especially at his age.

But it had to be done, he realised, the wound had to be cleaned and cauterised least it poisons him whole.

“What about Mister Baggins?” Thorin’s steely question almost made him choke on the last deep breath.

“You chose him,” Thranduil hissed out. “And I understand why. He’s brave, loyal and kind and what else could you ask for? If I were in your position I would’ve chosen him too. I would like to wish you all the luck, but I can’t…”

“Have you taken leave of your senses?”

At that his head snapped up so fast that it connected with a ceiling beam in a rather undignified fashion. But the pain wasn’t strong enough to keep his eyes off the Dwarf that now stood closer than before and his frosty eyes that were not so cold anymore.

“Bilbo is a dear friend to us,” Thorin… no, the Mountain repeated his words and Thranduil started to feel a bit faint. “The dearest of all, but a friend he is.”

What? So all that... all the little touches and smiles and whispers…

He gave the Hobbit a home! In the Mountain! At his side!

“I thought you knew that the Dwarves don’t change their hearts at a drop of a hat.”

But that… that made no sense unless…

Unless.

“I think… our burglar was right. There is something to talk about after all.” 

Finally, Thranduil sat down. With trembling hands he poured more tea into a delicate cup; there was no way he would even attempt to brave this conversation without something to soothe his nerves. From the corner of his eye he saw Thorin also taking a seat, his cup once again full of the golden mead obviously meant to serve as a more advanced version of his tea.   

And once more he compared himself to his little host and once more he felt acutely inadequate as a result. Bilbo Baggins thought of everything, didn’t he?

 

*

 

Outside of the smial Bilbo Baggins closed the round green door and leaned on it with a tired sigh. Oh, it was so much easier to deal with trolls and spiders and goblins than with the oblivious idiots that surrounded him on daily basis. It was a wonder that any civilisation East of Misty Mountains survived long enough to settle down!

He sighed once more and rooted in his pockets looking for the pipe. A quiet smoke on the bench in the orchard will do him much good while these two sort out their misconceptions once and for all.

Hm, maybe he should call in the Kingsgard and order them to pretend that they’re guarding the door? Captain Fenir was a severe dwarf, but even he could be persuaded to see the sense of Bilbo’s plan.

Or maybe he could get Kili and Legolas to talk to their respective elders? Both boys were young and energetic, and could be quite persuasive if they put their minds to it.

Thinking of such, Bilbo Baggins stepped out of the gate and turned to follow the path leading to the orchard…

And almost walked into a wall of living flesh.

The wall grabbed his arm and steadied him when he almost toppled to the ground in a quite embarrassing manner.

Then the wall smiled at his flustered state and flushed cheeks.

“Mister Baggins,” it said in a gravelly voice.

“Ah, good morning, Dwalin,” Bilbo greeted, trying to get his bearing back. “What… ah, brings you to Bag End? If it’s about Thorin, I have to disappoint you, he’s currently… er, busy. Yes, very busy so maybe later…” He was babbling and he couldn’t help it, especially that the massive hand didn’t release him and he was standing very close to the tall Dwarf. “Oh dear, look at the time...”  

“Burglar.” One word managed to silence his blubbering. “I’m not looking for the King.”

“Ah, indeed?” Bilbo swallowed with unease.

“Indeed.”

“Then… why are you here?”

Dwalin made a low noise in his throat that caused Bilbo’s knees to go a bit soft. It didn’t go unnoticed, apparently, because he could see a smile forming under the bushy beard and the corners of the Dwarf’s eyes crinkled a little. He didn’t understand what it was about until Dwalin nodded firmly, mumbled something quietly in Khuzdul and, still not realeasing his hold on Bilbo’s shoulder, said:

“I’ve been told by great many people that we should talk.”

To which Bilbo had one answer.

“ _Oh dear_.”

 

*

 

“But I have no beard and I will never have one! What if he doesn’t like it? What then?”

Prince Legolas sighed tiredly and fought the urge to rub at his temples. It would not do to make his dear friend feel even worse than she was already feeling.

“Tauriel, I think that he is prepared to deal with your lack of facial hair, truly.”

“My hair is awful to braid, it tangles and untangles on its own!” Said friend was close to tearing the offending red mane out. “I will look ridiculous next to him!”

“You would never look ridiculous and he knows it.”

“But what about his King? What about the Hobbit? He hates me!”

“Bilbo doesn’t hate you, Tauriel!” Legolas was quick to assure. “He isn’t overly fond of you, I admit, but he doesn’t have a hateful bone in his body. And you did try to shoot him when they were escaping,” he felt compelled to remind her. “Well, we all did.”

“Oh, my prince, what am I to do?”

“Just… maybe talk to him? Kili has a good heart, he will listen. Just talk to him.“

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
